“I do,” Sarah says. “You know I do. But I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to show staff solidarity, especially after you read this.”
She darts back to her desk, retrieves her laptop, then opens it up and hands it to Lisa. I get up to scan it over her shoulder. As I do, my heart sinks.
Living the Suite Life, the blog post’s title reads. Rascally Rashid Has Two Double Rooms to Himself in Fischer Hall.
Uh-oh.
14
Living the Suite Life:
Rascally Rashid Has Two Double Rooms to Himself in Fischer Hall
Did you apply to live in Fischer Hall, the hottest dorm on campus (where the upcoming new reality show Jordan Loves Tania was filmed), but get assigned to that pit of suck, Wasser Hall, instead?
Well, maybe if Crown Prince Rashid of Qalif hadn’t been assigned to four spaces in Fischer Hall instead of one, there might have been some left over for you. But we’re guessing your dad didn’t donate an estimated $500 million to the college the way the prince’s did.
Word has it that Rascally Rashid is living it up royal–blue blood style in room 1512, a suite that would normally house four students, but this year has been reassigned as a single fit for a king, complete with a private Jacuzzi tub, wet bar, water bed, and home theater.
Our Fischer Hall insider says the prince is generous about sharing, though, entertaining regularly in his room(s). Those interested in a royal audience need only contact the Fischer Hall director’s office, where someone will be happy to put them in touch with Rashid’s not-so-secret security detail, located in a conference room down the hall.
New York College Express,
your daily student news blog
This is bad.” The director of housing, Dr. Jessup, is sitting on an expensive leather chair in President Allington’s office, jiggling his right leg. “This is very, very bad.”
“We know the piece in the Express was bad, Stan,” I say. I’m sitting beside him at the vast, shiny conference table, which I can feel shaking because of the force of his jiggling. “But you know what’s worse?”
“Don’t say that a girl died in your building yesterday.”
Dr. Jessup’s got a fake smile plastered across his tanned face—I can tell he played a lot of golf over the summer—and is speaking from the side of his mouth as President Allington’s assistant moves around the shiny mahogany-and-glass conference table, making sure we have enough cream and finger sandwiches.
“I am going to say it. A girl died in our building yesterday.” I don’t bother to lower my voice. “And we’re being dragged up to the president’s office just because something about our VIR got posted online. That’s not only worse, it’s a waste of time.”
It doesn’t matter if I lower my voice. No one’s going to overhear me, least of all President Allington. His office is as wide as the Fischer Hall penthouse, and on an even higher floor on a building on the south side of Washington Square Park. It appears to have been decorated by someone with a fondness for black leather furniture and dark wood paneling. Floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides look out across SoHo and Fifth Avenue, while full-length portraits of the president and his wife, Eleanor, scowl down at us from beside a couple of potted palms.
The president’s desk—where he’s currently consulting with media relations expert Muffy Fowler and some of the college’s expert legal team—is approximately the size of a Gap checkout counter and seems a thousand miles away.
It’s intimidating enough to make a person want to throw up . . .
. . . which one person, namely my boss, Lisa, is already doing down the hall in the ladies’ room.
“No,” Dr. Jessup says to me, still speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “That girl’s death, while doubtlessly tragic, does not financially impact our department in any way. That Twitter or Tweet or twat or whatever it was from the Express, does. That’s why this is worse. Not because these people are bureaucratic nimrods whose thumbs are up their asses.” He smiles beatifically at President Allington’s assistant, who is laying out a silver coffee and tea service. “Those sandwiches look simply lovely, Gloria.”
Gloria smiles back. “Why, thank you, Stan,” she says with a flirtatious wink before walking away.
“It was a blog post,” I tell Dr. Jessup, though I don’t know why I bother, since his gaze is on Gloria’s departing legs. “And how does it financially impact our department?”
“We were supposed to keep the prince’s room assignment a secret,” Dr. Jessup hisses. “The fact that he has twenty-four-hour security, and where those security personnel are based, is supposed to be a secret. How the hell did the Express find out about it? The president’s going to cut off our funding over this. And he’s been very generous with our funding lately. Where do you think we got the money to upgrade your building this past summer? From this office. I was hoping to renovate your friend Tom’s building, Waverly Hall, next. Did you know those boys in the frat houses only have one working elevator? And it hasn’t been upgraded since 1995. But I bet I can kiss that money good-bye now.”
He smiles at one of the guys from Legal who comes over to snag a finger sandwich. “How you doing, Bill?” Dr. Jessup asks chummily.
“Oh, you know,” Bill says, chewing. “Can’t complain. Hey, I played Maidstone over the weekend. Birdied the sixth hole.”
“Did you really, you old bastard?” Dr. Jessup asks. “Guess they’ve lowered their standards.”